


In the Days After

by Vana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I really mean it about that hurt/comfort, Siege of Storm's End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-10 21:51:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/pseuds/Vana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Siege of Storm’s End, Stannis falls ill. With Renly in need of Maester Cressen, Davos steps in, unafraid of his new lord and hoping he can be of some use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Days After

Four days after Davos Seaworth had sailed to Storm’s End, slipping between the shadows, the young lord Stannis Baratheon did not come to his council. His men wondered, whispered, but mostly they seemed relieved to have a day of respite from the harsh commander for even a day. Stannis was likely at parley, they said among themselves, or maybe he was cutting the fingers off another smuggler. This with a sly sideways look at Davos — disrespect tempered with gratitude. It did not flatter any of them.

Davos was more concerned with the maester. Nearly sixty, with white hair and audibly cracking joints, it had been Cressen who had given the milk of the poppy to Davos, Cressen who made sure infection did not set in. But now Cressen was agitated, flushed with unease, shuffling between two chambers with misery emanating from him as clear as words.

“Maester,” asked Davos, catching the man’s arm on one of his peregrinations, “is all well?”

“No one is well,” Cressen whispered. It only took Davos a moment to discover why. The slightest sound woke up the boy Renly, who cried and wailed for his mother, then his father, then the king Robert, then for Cressen himself, then finally for Stannis. “Renly is ill.” Cressen shot a frightened look at the closed door, and went on. “And Stannis is worse. I do not have the needed supplies to care for them both …”

“What ails Lord Stannis?”

“I can’t be sure. He used himself up during the siege. He tried to get up this morning and his legs gave out. He had to be helped back to bed. He is feverish, he is weak, and his bowels …”

“I see,” Davos interrupted. “I didn’t bring potions in my sailboat, but I have sons — four of them. They’ve all had the illnesses young boys get in a dirty town. If I can help in any way …”

“You should still be resting, yourself,” said Cressen, but without conviction. It would hardly take any more of Davos’ singular powers of persuasion to let him aid in the care of the young boy Renly. He was the age of Allard, or maybe Matthos.

“Stannis,” Cressen said, “may just need food. He hardly ate when you brought in your supplies. A man makes broth, but just as I try to give it to Stannis, Renly needs me and it becomes cold. If you think you could entreat him to eat a bit, and then to rest, that may be all he needs.”

“Stannis?” Davos repeated. Nursing a child was one thing, but sitting at the sickbed of a lord — even one weakened by starvation, even one barely nineteen years old — was another. The next moment he chided himself. Lord Stannis and Cressen both needed his help, and he would not say he was afraid to try. 

 

Stannis was so weakened he only protested with a sharp exhalation when Davos entered the room instead of Cressen. “Your brother needs the maester, my lord,” was all Davos had said, and Stannis had closed his eyes in acquiescence while Davos simply sat, watching him sleep fitfully. Later a man did bring broth, redolent of onions and beef, and Davos was absurdly pleased that it was still warm when Stannis sipped. He tried to sit up but slid back down onto his bed, cursing through chattering teeth. 

“Let me help you,” Davos said, leaving off the “Lord Stannis” this time. He held the steaming bowl up to Stannis’ face, the way he had when his sons were ill, and helped him lift the spoon to his mouth, and looked away when some of it spilled down over Stannis’ chin and the lord swore faintly. When Stannis finished eating he let the bowl fall and slumped back down. The bowl clattered on the stone floor.

That night Stannis’ face burned even as he shivered so hard Davos was sure he could hear the man's bones rattling. Renly cried ceaselessly for Cressen. A man sent up soup, and still Davos never left the bedside. This time, the soup went cold as Stannis was too delirious to try to eat. When that subsided, Stannis was sick at his stomach. He dropped his face over the edge of the bed to be ill, and Davos held his hand over the clammy forehead. 

“You will feel better soon,” Davos said. “My boy, my Matthos, had a fearsome sickness once. For days he lay in bed, and he didn’t know his mother, nor his brothers, nor me. He cried and shivered, but then it passed. And now he’s as hearty as any boy in King’s Landing.” He smiled, thinking of Matthos and his other boys, and how proud they would be when they got to know they were the sons of a knight. And how amazed his Marya would look! He would ask her, when he saw her again, how she would have nursed a sickly, starved lord.

The hours went by in a dusty haze. Someone — Cressen — brought Davos a meal; he ate it without knowing and gave Stannis the cup of water. He could see Stannis’ throat working, trying to swallow, but in the end he retched dryly and pushed the cup away. Davos felt the furrows in his brow growing ever deeper as he watched over the lost lord.

“Renly,” Stannis said once, feeling out in the dark, searching for the little brother’s hand.

“The maester is with him,” Davos said, hoping it was still true and they had not buried the happy lordling, his endless chattering stilled forever. “Renly will be fine.”

Then later: “Our line will not live long,” Stannis said, and the fever was in his voice. “I will father no sons … I would have wished … only for a son to name after my father. But our line is dying. It’s _dying_ , I tell you. It is dead already.”

“What was your father’s name?” Davos hardly expected his lord to answer; he didn’t even think he knew Davos was there.

“Steffon,” said Stannis, and the hopelessness broke his voice in two. “Steffon Baratheon.”

“You will father sons, strong like their father and grandsire,” Davos told him. “But even so, I vow to you that if the gods give me another son, I will name him after your father myself.” He hardly knew why he was saying it. He had promised Marya she would have the naming of the next child, and she had chosen the name Devan if it were to be another boy. But his words seemed to calm Stannis and in the half-light he imagined he saw the shadow of a smile on his face.

Before evening the next day, Stannis was worse again. His body was wracked with spasms and fever, and he spoke angrily through his dreams, words that weren’t words flung at people who weren’t people. Once he seemed to be arguing with an unseen adversary. “My brother has commanded me to hold this garrison and until he says otherwise we will not give in,” he rasped out. “This is my home,” he whispered hours later. “My only home. You will not take it from me.” Davos felt the sweat pouring off him. He wet his hand in the water basin and stroked Stannis’ cheek. There was nothing else he could do.

“Gods help me,” Davos heard Stannis say, and then he was silent again.

At the last, Davos despaired over him. “Father, judge him justly,” he murmured, bowing his head over the man he had come to feel great tenderness for, the man who was now slipping between the shadows to the next world, where the gods would take him in. “Mother, be merciful.”

Renly burst in then, followed by Cressen. “Take the boy out,” Davos said to Cressen without turning around. He heard his own voice, flat and grey. When Cressen returned alone, Davos said, “He is dying. I have done what I could do, but he won’t live out the day. It should have been you here.”

Maester Cressen looked at him kindly. “Go rest now, Ser Davos,” he told him. “Renly is much better and I will look after Stannis.”

“I would stay with him,” Davos said.

“You  _will_  stay, ser,” came the voice from the bed, barely audible, but there was an iron in it that had not been there before. Davos was too shocked to speak. What change had been wrought in the last half-hour? Cressen hurried over and fussed over Stannis, feeling his pulses and looking into his face, muttering. 

“It has broken,” said Cressen. Then he bent over Stannis, and Davos heard the tears in his voice. “My boy,” Cressen said, hardly loud enough to hear.

Stannis moved impatiently. “Cressen, don’t carry on.”

Davos stood, suppressing a long stretch. It had been hours since he had moved a muscle. “Since you’re here, Maester …”

“You will stay, Ser Davos,” said Stannis again. “Cressen — leave us.”

Davos noticed the odd, searching glance the maester gave him before he closed the door, leaving them alone again. He resumed his seat.

“How long have you been here, ser? By my bedside?”

“I can’t say. It may have been three days.” 

Stannis’ glassy eyes hardened into something that was so fragile it seemed it might shatter. Then, miraculously, his gaze softened. “Then it’s twice you have saved my life now in the space of a week. I bought your loyalty with your fingers, but it seems you are willing to give even more than what I asked of you.” He held back what could have been a shaky laugh, and he reached out a thin hand and grasped Davos’ unhurt hand in it. “It makes me wonder whether all smugglers from Flea Bottom are so … unstinting.”

“I have children, my lord. I know what it is like to see them suffer.”

“So I am another son to you?” Stannis lashed out, shocking Davos with his voice — was it sudden anger bubbling to the surface or just the confusion that came with severe illness? Davos could feel him straining to snatch his hand back but he held on tightly. 

“No,” Davos said. “Maester Cressen could help you more than I can. Yet I wanted to be here with you.” He wanted to speak of the inexplicable draw he felt toward Stannis, the despair when he thought he might die that had nothing to do with his own future — but he couldn’t. All he could do was sit, head bowed, hand grasping Stannis’ like a lifeline — as if he was the ailing man and Stannis was the cool water. Before he could decide what to say next, which words would strike the balance between his duty and his confused heart, he heard a faint snore. Stannis was asleep peacefully, a healing and true sleep. And Davos sat beside him for long hours, holding his hand and listening to him breathe.


End file.
